LITMIR.BIZ

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of their deities and heroes in the night skies of their homeworld. Exactly who or what Resch had been—god, demigod, hero, or sky monster—was unknown. Its image had been seen in the night sky of the Chelk, who’d held a modest interstellar empire in this region of the galaxy perhaps twelve thousand years earlier.

      According to the Agletsch, the Chelk had refused to yield to the Sh’daar demands that they freeze all technological development.

      The Chelk were now extinct.

      “And after that?” Giraurd asked. “Where will you go after Texaghu Resch?”

      Koenig grinned. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you. You know that. But I can tell you truthfully, Admiral, I just don’t know. It’ll depend entirely on what happens at the Sh’daar Node, and what we learn there.”

      “I understand.”

      “I will suggest that Earth send a follow-up, though. If we can, we’ll leave word of where we’re going next. They can keep track of us that way.”

      “Yes … months too late to do any good.”

      “Depends on what you mean by ‘good.’ I don’t intend to let them stop us, if that’s what you mean. But at the same time, we’re learning a lot out here about the Sh’daar, about who and what they are, about their client races, about how they see the universe. Geneva will need to know this stuff, no matter what they decide to do back there … negotiations, or a military offensive.”

      Giraurd studied Koenig carefully for a moment. “You really believe that what you’re doing is for the good of Earth, don’t you?”

      “Of course. I wouldn’t be out here if I didn’t.”

      Giraurd shook his head. “I truly hope you know what you’re doing. I hope—”

      “What?”

      “I actually hope you are right, Admiral, and that the Confederation Senate and Military Directorate are wrong.”

      “So do I, Admiral.”

      “Because if you’re wrong, Admiral Koenig, God help us all.”

       Officers Mess

      TC/USNA CVS America

       Kuiper Belt, HD 157950

       98 light years from Earth

       1215 hours, TFT

      “Hey, Sandy. Mind if I join you?”

      Trevor Gray looked up from his food, startled. Only a few of his friends called him that—Sandy Gray, a memento of the tactic he’d suggested at the Defense of Earth. It was a hell of a lot better than the hated nickname “Prim.”

      “Schiffie! Please! Grab a seat.”

      Lieutenant Rissa Schiff set her tray down and sat, smiling. “I’d grab yours if I could, Trev. But I think you’ve been avoiding me.”

      “Just busy, Schiffie. You know how it is.”

      He wondered if the young woman was going to be a problem.

      Nine months ago, Gray and Schiff had had a little something going between them—nothing physical, quite. They’d dated, they’d flirted, and they’d talked about taking things further—she’d been a cute and enthusiastic little armful, and Gray had been trying out the idea of casual sexual relationships after a lifetime of monogie self-control. When his wife had divorced him, he’d had no one. For two years afterward, he’d had little interest in filling that aching emptiness Angela had left in him, but then he’d met Rissa, and she was cute and sweet and fun, and she’d indicated a willingness to play.

      It had damned near gotten him court-martialed.

      Not because he’d considered having sex with her. At the time, he’d been a lieutenant and she’d been an ensign, and officially, physical relationships between people of different ranks were discouraged. An officer handing out special favors or status in exchange for sex from a subordinate was very bad form, though it did happen, of course. But Gray and Schiff had kept their playtimes secret and, in any case, he’d been a pilot while she worked in the avionics department. He might outrank her, but he was not her boss.

      But a couple of other pilots in Gray’s squadron, Howie Spaas and Jen Collins, had run into them while they’d been at a place called the Worldview, a bar-restaurant next to the spaceport at the SupraQuito space elevator. They’d started hassling him about being a Prim and a monogie in front of Rissa and he’d lost it, had decked Howie Spaas. Commander Allyn, the Dragonfires’ skipper, had come that close to sending him up for a court martial, closer still to kicking him out of the squadron.

      He still liked to imagine that the extra duty, the anger-management therapy, and the ass-chewing he’d gotten from the skipper had all been worth it.

      Lieutenant Spaas was dead, now—killed trying to bring his damaged Starhawk down on America’s flight deck at Eta Boötis. Collins was still in America’s sick bay, broken physically and emotionally at Alphekka. Commander Allyn was still in the sick bay as well, her brain damaged by oxygen starvation after her fighter drifted for three days through the Alphekkan debris field.

      Riss had more than once indicated that she was still interested in Gray … and when her promotion to lieutenant came through on Earth four months earlier, even the technical barrier of their respective ranks had been removed. Gray had come very close to taking her to bed then … but he’d run into Angela at a big political function at the Eudaimonium in New New York and that had raised once more all of the doubts and self-searchings. Damn it, he’d thought Angela was dead after that Turusch impactor had sent a tidal wave thundering up the Hudson Valley.

      Somehow, it had never happened.

      And then Commander Allyn had been injured at Alphekka, the Dragonfires had suffered 75 percent casualties, Gray had been given temporary command of VFA-44 … and Schiffie had volunteered to transfer from Avionics to a replacement slot in the squadron. Now he was her boss, and he was responsible for her training.

      The situation, clearly, had changed.

      “I was wondering, Trev, when you were going to have some downtime. I’d still like to see you. Like we talked about, y’know?”

      Gray leaned back in his chair, his lunch, half-eaten, forgotten now. Their table was near one of the compartment’s viewall bulkheads, which curved all the way around to create a 270-degree panorama of the starscape outside. The cameras transmitting the image were mounted on America’s nonrotating spine or shield cap, so that the star field didn’t move with the turning hab modules—which included the mess deck—through a full circle.

      In the distance, several of the battlegroup’s members were taking on water—the United States of North America and the Abraham Lincoln, both Lincoln-class fleet carriers slightly smaller than the America. They looked like toys at this distance, gleaming in the hard white glow of the distant HD 157950. The supply ships Mare Orientalis, Salt Lake, and Lacus Solis drifted close by the carriers, each tucked in close against its own kilometer-wide floating iceberg, converting them to reaction mass and organic volatiles for the fleet’s nanufactories.

      “Riss,” Gray said, “it can’t be like that. Not now. I’m your CO now.”

      She laughed. “Geez, get over yourself, Trev! I’m not talking about monogie, here! Who’s going to know?”

      “Me, for one,” Gray said. He’d not intended his voice to sound so cold.

      Her voice turned cold as well. “Very well, Lieutenant,” she said. She stood and picked up her tray. “I apologize for bothering you.”

      “Aw, sit down and eat your chow, Riss!”

      But she was gone.

      Monogie …

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